the sea

i can hear the sea whispering my name / acknowledging the yearning within me / to dip my toes into the sand that is warm with comfort and security / to touch and caress the white and the blue of the wonders before me / to feel the cold sea in my palm for a split second before she returns home / to taste the salt in the wind / to see the day transform into an evening of experience and awareness / to smell the petrichor but without the rain / i never learned how to float, but as i imagine myself standing before the grandeur of the endless blue, all of my anchors sink and i rise, drifting towards someplace i have never been before / i am not afraid / i am conscious of every moment of my being / i am alive / i am here / i am

Advertisements

the story of a bath

the brush of my clothes i miss
amidst the bare of my body,
surrounded by cold tiles, colder air
that invades my personal space.
water begins its descent,
from the shower onto ice beneath and
the fall of the drops splash my face
as i stand aside, waiting
for the water to steam.
goosebumps mark my body;
unlike a temple, i’m not proud
of the spots, the skin, the hair
i see so clearly in the mirror;
nearly always melancholy
in this place, i stand outside
of my comfort zone
in the cold
shivering
until
my eyes
see the steam
rise into the air and
under the water i stand
to wash away my thoughts;
the hot water first strikes my skin
but later caresses gently,
i breathe in deeply and sigh
as the mirror fogs up and i only see
a blur that shows me mercy
from my own self; the water so hot
almost gets under my skin
to help my highly strung nerves,
unwind from within;
my toes curl, fingertips prune
signalling it’s time to leave,
to do more important things,
than drown in self pity,
and i emerge outside
with steam rising
from my body.

poor mr. cabbie

hey mr. cabbie,
what’s on your mind,
is it the family of three
that you saw passing by?
or is it the little brown sparrow
that’s been a stranger to your eye?

hey mr. cabbie,
what are you thinking about,
is it your favourite apple tree,
that you recently saw cut down?
or is it the absurdly grey cloud in the sky,
its shape akin to that of a dead butterfly?

hey mr. cabbie,
what was your last thought,
was it the news on the telly
about the big bleak future that is your next stop?
or do you feel the choking breeze,
and hear the greens on your usual route cry?

hey mr. cabbie,
you better watch your step,
the war is coming, and this is your warning
the wheels of your car will screech in worry,
the roads will crack, the building will fall
and the earth will sneer, bulls-eye.

specks of dust

we are the forgotten comma,
and the neglected semi colon;
we are like words of gratitude
not conveyed, never felt.
we yearn for a moment of glory,
a touch of honour and a whiff of fame,
but we forget to be happy,
what a terrible shame.
we are all specks of dust
floating upward, frontward
in the light,
while our life takes off,
and we miss the flight.

italy

once upon a time,
in the year Two Thousand and Seventeen,
on the Seventh day of May,
a fair, young maiden voyaged
to a land far, far away.

she was spirited and eager,
because never before had she journeyed
to the strange and vast expanse of the west;
an impromptu plan at it’s finest,
the dame found the news hard to digest.

art, history and breathtaking beauty,
few words used to describe this land of Italy;
to breathe in the unfamiliarity of a nation
the girl had only read about in tales,
was an experience not nearly justified by this narration.

in truth, the trip’s primary purpose
was to make her grandfather forget
the sombre memories and to help him remember,
the sweet tales of his beloved darling
and the time they spent together.

the adventure was to cover cities three:
Venice, Florence and Rome
over the span of one week;
planned with guided tours and trips,
every day they got to see something unique.

in the city of canals she walked on water,
tasted the temperature drop from day to night,
she sailed the open sea and heard the waves call;
between narrow streets she skipped and observed,
always in awe of the unusually plump pigeons perched on the wall.

Florence was the city where history came alive,
a certain Leonardo telling the girl of the tales of his city;
she drank wine and tasted pure cheese,
and gave in to the illusion of the leaning Pisa,
all the while grateful for the blue skies and cool breeze.

the eternal city was architecture at its ancient best,
ruins she had never seen so grand;
she savoured silence in the chapel Sistine,
and devoured the beauty of the Vatican,
but before she knew, it was already day Thirteen.

next day, she was on the voyage back home
with a second case overflowing with memories,
her grandfather’s heart was content, it was plain to see.
a scrapbook filled with tokens of the city,
her lips stretched wide, saying a heartfelt grazie.

the land of floating hearts

on some days she travels,
from the roots of her grounded mind
to the land of floating hearts;
where exist one’s true loves,
and a pair for the heart.

on some days she travels,
away from the home of her steady mind
to the land of those in love;
she wonders patient yet afraid,
will she ever find a place?

on some days she travels,
over the barriers of her loneliness
to the land of the enamoured and entwined;
she gets a touch of of the warm breeze,
where they say, love is in the air.

on some days she travels,
leaving behind her worries and ambitions
to the land of those loyal to their love;
she yearns to feel her hand be clasped,
by someone she’d never have to share.

on some days she travels,
with her heart on her sleeve,
to the land of of floating hearts;
where exists one’s true loves,
and a pair for the heart.

ma

it is late in the evening – the sun has
one foot out the door; reluctant to go,
she leaves behind a splash of colours to
remind one, of her crimson warmth and glow.

with my petite frame shrivelled with failure,
i sit on the edge of my bed, and i
wait for the light of my sun to return
to help assuage my pain, and pacify.

her scarlet poise fades a little when i,
greet her quietly, words lodged in my throat;
one breath later, she’s battling my despair,
her arms round me, the strongest antidote.

my head pressed against her chest, eyes shut tight;
yet, stubborn tears escape and roll down fast,
discolouring her once red blouse to stale
burgundy: a change in weather forecast.

wiser than most, kinder than many, she
proves passively powerful once again
as she bears the weight of my heavy heart,
teaches me to conquer my mind and reign.

my distorted view of success she mends,
with her gentle words and nurturing smile;
from one of callous comparison to
faith in oneself and a journey worthwhile.

Venus, Earth or Mars, we are all the same:
different worlds that orbit around her –
our source of power, love and optimism;
she keeps us grounded, safe and together.